His Victory
by aquavis
Summary: Matthew knows his enemy; he keeps telling himself that. But in the trenches, when do you draw the line between empathy and duty?


**A/N: I not own Hetalia.**

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It had been sitting there for a while.

Two or three days, Matthew reckoned.

Not even a weapon spared by looters.

The blood had already dried, leaving maroon stains down the front of the jacket. Around its legs, the mud surrounding it was undisturbed, frozen into place. Even the eyes of the man propped in front of him were caked with dirt and muscle, closed tightly away from the view of the battlefield.

"Christ," Matthew grumbled; it seemed to be facing towards him. "What a wreck."

He struck a match, the flame lingering briefly upon the tip before spreading onto the cigarette and disappearing into the wind.

As he curled his lips around the cigarette, the flicker of embers glowed softly in the twilight, cutting through the fading darkness.

By now, the sun was on the brink of rising, the sky preparing for its arrival with a spread of cobalt blue. Matthew could see the defined features of the man sitting in his trench, the sharply angled jaw and his muddy blonde hair eerily cast with faint light.

A German, no doubt.

"How are you doing, Fritz?" A puff of smoke left his mouth as he spoke, curling into itself before clambering into the sky. He needed to force a laugh out of himself. "Did you get enough bullets in your chest for one day?"

He chuckled, the action gently heaving his shoulders. "Take your time, I'm in no rush." Matthew turned away. "Got a few more minutes to spare."

It was soft, quiet wheeze above the wails of stray artillery that caught his attention. Matthew wouldn't have noticed had it not been for the ghostly mist that escaped the man's lips. "Fu…ck…" The man groaned, rolling his head along the bank.

Matthew's skin crawled, hands already in motion along the metal of his bayonet. "For Christ's sake!" His finger twitched on the trigger, his heart pounding rapidly against his chest. "What the fuck!"

Slowly, an eyelid flickered open, revealing a milky eye with a piercing blue iris. The man blinked lazily, a small smile pulling at his lips. "H-hallo… Kamerad." The man raised his hand up, bloody fingers bent crooked as he stared directly into the eyes of the soldier above him.

"I'm not your comrade!" Matthew snarled, holding his gun steady.

"You're England's son," The man replied in English, licking his bottom lip as he spoke. "Are you not?"

"What is it to you?" Matthew paused, now clutching his weapon so tightly that his fingers trembled. He knew that he was out of ammunition. What stood between him and the man before him was only a flimsy piece of metal stuck to a useless gun. If something went wrong, if someone attacked…

A snort of some sort erupted from the man in the ditch. "You don't know who I am?" His voice was dripping with a heavy German accent. "England taught you poorly."

"Shut up." Matthew narrowed his eyes.

"Tommy, is this your first time stepping foot onto European soil? How sad."

"I said shut up!" Matthew yelled, charging his bayonet into the man's torso. It sliced into the skin with a sickening swish, blood once again teeming from his chest.

The man let out a gasp, his fingers sticky with blood as he grasped at the rifle. "Heh…" he coughed, crimson dripping from his mouth. "Y-you know you can't k-kill me." His fingers slipped off of the gun, falling to his wound. "Germany _will_ _not_ f-fall to you."

Matthew pulled out the bayonet, and stabbed the man again, the sticky red blood trickling onto his knife. Now he recognized the man. "I don't like to be insulted, _Ludwig_."

More blood seeped from the man's mouth, spilling over the front of his jacket. When Ludwig spoke, his teeth were dark red, almost hidden. It came slowly, sluggishly as he slipped over his words. "So… the boy finally s-says something intelligent."

"You fucker, I'll rip you apart!"

Matthew spat his cigarette (still lit) at Ludwig's face, ashes landing in his eyes and falling to the ground like snow.

"Up!" Matthew commanded, pulling out his bayonet and holding his rifle up to his prisoners face. Ludwig grinned, his pale face taut with a pained expression. He did not move; instead, he chose to stay still, the one eye blinking slow and uneasy as he watched Matthew grow furious. Matthew glared. "I said up!"

"P-Poor kleiner junge," Ludwig replied, his voice straining to be condesending. "Don't you know that I will _never_ surrender to you?"

Matthew curled his fist, fingers crunched tightly together, and swung for Ludwig's face, the sickening crunch of bone on bone ringing in his ears. Over and over again, he punched the man, until his fingers were stained with the ruby red he was all too familiar with. "You bastard," He muttered, struggling to keep a hold on his rifle. "You think this is a game? You think that this is some fucking _game_ with no consequences?"

Ludwig adjusted his jaw, gawking as the blood drooled over his lips. "Don't lecture me on a war you can't win." Ludwig struggled to stand up, staggering over the uneven ground, his hands numbly dragging by his side.

Matthew quickly raised his rifle, lowering the bayonet to his target. Ludwig ripped it away, carelessly throwing over No Man's Land. He had a lot more strength in him than it appeared.

"You're pathetic," He said, trying to keep his balance.

"You're ridiculous." Matthew ran towards Ludwig, another punch connecting with the man's already broken nose. "Trying to get up and fight when you're almost dead."

"You don't understand."

"I don't need to understand!"

Ludwig brought his fist up, forcing it into Matthew's stomach. "You're not fighting for yourself!"

Matthew doubled over, knees falling into the soft mud as he tried to catch his breath. He could feel Ludwig watching him, closing in on him, ready to lay a final blow.

Ludwig pushed Matthew to the ground, face planted into a puddle. He pressed his foot against his captor's head, shoving him deeper into the murky water. Matthew flailed his arms, trying to free himself from the weight on the back of his skull, just pounding, **pounding** over his brain.

The drowning wouldn't kill him (as long as Canada existed, he knew this to be the only truth) but if he didn't get air soon, his lungs would be awash in filthy sewage water.

He found himself twisting his head, jerking it to the side as his fingers grasped at the mud around him. Ludwig may have been strong, but whatever power he had over Matthew faded as Matthew rolled over, falling onto his side. He pulled Ludwig to the ground as he grabbed a knife from his pocket, wheezing for air. Still sputtering water from his lungs, Matthew yanked the man's arms together, holding them tightly in one hand, and resting his blade upon the man's throat.

"Y-you're right." Matthew said quietly, coughing up muddy water. "I'm not fighting for myself. I'm fighting for my _family_."

The blade glistened against the now magenta sky, poised carefully above Ludwig's Adam's apple.

Matthew could feel the blood moisten into his knees of his trousers (after all, he had a knee on Ludwig's chest) and drip onto his fingers from his knife. He scowled, watching the man beneath him gaze back without fear.

"What are you waiting for?" Ludwig whispered, straining to be heard over the rumble of shells on the horizon.

Matthew held his knife tightly, pressing the edge of the blade against the milky skin under it, trembling with absolution. The tip drew blood, a small bead falling upon Ludwig's already crimson jacket.

This man killed so many.

That was Matthew's reasoning.

He didn't deserve to be shown the mercy the man wouldn't give Matthew's own.

He didn't deserve **anything**.

In his mind, it was decided.

Matthew grunted, slowly bringing his hand along Ludwig's throat, the blade flickering against his pale skin.

With a twist of his wrist, he watched the knife carved its way along Ludwig's throat, cutting through his muscles and sinews as if nothing at all. Ludwig mouthed out words, his voice lost within himself. Matthew could have sworn he saw a tear.

"Is this what you wanted?" Matthew asked harshly, digging the blade deeper into the mound of peeling flesh. He tightened his grip on the man's hands, bones locked in a vice.

Ludwig gurgled, the sticky blood bubbling in his throat. He opened his other eye, revealing a bloodshot blue iris wide in anticipation. "T-they're… a-afraid… of… of you… you… kn…know…"

Matthew brought the knife away from Ludwig's throat. "…Who is?"

"My… my men…" Ludwig managed, eyes rolling in their sockets. He groaned loudly, not even a dull roar in his throat. "You-you've… earned it…"

Matthew cocked his head, almost sneering. He opened his mouth to reply, but no words found their way out. Instead, Matthew quickly dove his knife into Ludwig's arm, wedging it in with all the strength he had.

He stood up, letting go of the purple wrists he'd held, staring downwards. A foot was placed on top of the knife, plunging the blade past Ludwig's bones with a sickening crunch and through to the ground. If he tried to get up, he'd have some difficulties.

The man looked up, staring straight into Matthew's eyes. "Auf… Wie-ie…der…se…hen… ko… mar-ra…rade… we m-meet… again o-o-one… day…"

The sky had turned gold and tangerine, far from the early cries of the dark blue that ate away the sky a few minutes (hours?) ago. Matthew turned around, not daring to look back at the crumpled body of Germany behind him.

He almost wanted to smile, though the circumstances were cruel.

Germany was scared of him.

_But was it worth it?_ He would ask himself.

Of course.

It was the start of his victories.


End file.
